A suffering for long, deeply buried in the sands of time. Silently bearing the pain, the humiliation and the tug of the heartstrings. The wound occasionally bobbing to the surface, the size of a large boulder, to be pushed deep into the sand yet again for the thousandth time. Buried. Forgotten…only till such time, its stubborn head resurfaces yet again. Living with this pain becomes second nature, its presence a mere habit like the sore big toe tired of walking miles at stretch.
Seasons come and go. Spring ushers in bloom, a rapture of colours, the green gets greener. Winter brings in chill and blankets the world in its hazy blues. Summer ushers in sun bathed brightness to dust away the mist. Monsoon washes the world, showers away the past and the future. We get older. The seasons begin their routine yet again.
The wound remains…a little more imbibed, a little older, a little more sleepy. Tugs a little harder when awake.
Roots build up in the meanwhile, anchoring her. They grow deep and strong. She trusts them. She forgets that no sand but soil alone can only hold down roots firm. Before long, the myth breaks. There had been no roots in sand. The mirage of the oasis fades into nothingness and only the vast empty desert beckons. Should she walk ahead into this vastness? She pauses and reconsiders. Is she brave enough?
The winds blow away her fears, not all of them though. She sees for a moment clearly through the layer of sand which had eclipsed her vision for so long. The mist lifts and she can see the clear blue sky above. Cool and soft. Dark with the celebration of a million stars. So inviting. Sure and confident of a hand guiding her, she takes her first step forward. It’s a lovely night.
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